Not Ungrateful

You can feel me, nervous
bundle of awkward energy squirming under the table;
I'm talking to people,
being charming,
and there's your touch, hidden, but potent.

You used to touch me to make me calm.
You used to find me when I was gone,
one foot out the door in a conversation I had started.

But now you touch me to find me because you don't know where I am
and I want to tell you, but you aren't here.

I didn't want to not need you.
But you weren't here, and I had to grow up a little.
and now you touch me to reassure
and you touch me to show me
and you touch me to prove a thing that does not exist.

I want your hand on my back.
I miss your knee pressing against my knee.
But I resent it, too, because
I can take care of myself.

Because I have to take care of myself.
Because there are 74 unfinished conversations still sitting between us like seeds planted ungerminated waiting for the spring sun.
Because when I look in your eyes I see the dark wall.

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